


Lost Stars

by Anonymous



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Batdad, DaddyBats, Damian is a tiny bby, Fluff, Gen, batfamily, past Talia/Bruce, pseudo Selina/Bruce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 13:08:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5870857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Bruce has startling moments of clarity regarding his youngest son.<br/>(cute fic about Bruce being a dad sue me)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost Stars

“Enjoyable night, Master Bruce?”

The billionaire broke his gaze, brokering contact with the butler in the rear view mirror. “Productive, old friend,” he responded. “Productive.”

His throat felt sluggish over the response. He did not know why. 

“I see,” Alfred said after a moment. They returned to silence. 

Bruce’s gaze slid to the occupant at the far side of the vehicle. Damian’s head was leaning against the window, legs spread across the seat, small leather shoe slipping off a socked foot. The ten year old’s snub nose was pressed against his arm, which wrapped around his neck like a hug. 

Bruce wondered, briefly, how his mother had held him when Damian was a child.

(He wondered, briefly, how he would have held Damian as a child).

Of course, Damian still was a child. It was…disappointing how often Bruce could forget that. 

_Green eyes glittered in the ballroom light._

_“You should go home soon.”_

_“Why is that?”_

_Smooth fingers trailed up a dressed arm._

_“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you have a ten year old with you and it’s past midnight?”_

_A halted movement._

_“…He stays up later than this.”_

_“He’s tired.”_

_A quick glance._

_“How can you tell?”_

_“I can always tell.”_

_A sip out of a martini glass._

_“So you know everything now, do you?”_

_“Of course not. I know half of everything. Alfred knows the other half.“_

_Ruby lips brushed his._

_”_ _Goodnight.“_

Bruce sighed, rearranging his black leather gloves in his lap. True to Selina’s prediction, Damian had passed out like a light before they had even left the driveway. He rubbed his fingers against the leather. They reminded him of lessons, of duty, of grief spent under night skies. Bruce sighed again. He needed to pay more attention. 

The yellow streetlights weaved in and out of the windows, shedding their glow on the boy. The craning city seemed to curve in, intent on protecting a young soul. Dark locks displayed against Damian’s forehead, tangled against the young brow. 

Bruce crossed his legs, observing his son. The child almost looked…peaceful. Damian’s cheek, no longer taut and drawn in the everlasting battle of his circumstances (his father’s war, his mother’s war _, should have protected him, should have been there–_ ), was pillowed and smushed. The man let a small smile tinge his lips. 

Still a child.

The car glided to a stop. The manor’s door beckoned like a familiar friend, used to ushering its boys home like a lovingly reproachful housekeeper. “Mind your feet now,” it told Bruce as he stepped out of the car. “Snow is slippery.”

He exhaled into the crisp air, white breath twirling in the driveway lights. The snow began to fall, delicate flakes tickling the man’s nose. 

Damian made a small whine of protest as he snuffled awake, large blue eyes blinking blearily. He saw his father’s legs adorned in the bottom half of tuxedo. His head tilted forward, as if too large with sleep to carry the weight. 

Bruce shifted, hands deep in his coat pocket. He peeked into the car. 

Damian’s cheek was slightly pink from his contorted resting position. He was still asleep.

The man blinked. He placed a knee on the seat and reached out. 

Alfred made no sound except a slight hum of approval as Bruce took his child into his arms, slipping Damian’s errant shoe back onto his foot. 

The night air roused Damian slightly. “Can do it mahself,” he mumbled, lifting his head.

Bruce brought an arm against his back, rubbing his hand against the small span. “Shush,” he whispered, and was gratified that Damian’s head knocked against his shoulder in sleepy compliance. The man crossed the threshold and crept up the stairs in the dark manor, every creak hushed. 

It did not take long to reach Damian’s room. The clock ticked in the hallway, echoing throughout the house and behind Bruce’s eyelids when he blinked. He sat on the bed and placed his human package between his knees. The ten year old swayed, but remained upright. Bruce gently unbuttoned the child’s coat, easing him out of it. 

By the time the chill had reacquainted itself with the boy, Damian had blinked up warily. “Father?” he hedged, voice groggy and unsure. 

“Get undressed,” the father urged him, warm palm encompassing the child’s cheek. Damian slowly unbuttoned his tuxedo while Bruce retrieved pajamas from the dresser. He handed them over to the shivering child and made his way over to the bed. The man turned down the comforter and ignored the cat’s judging eyes. 'It doesn’t belong to you,' he told it through a stern look.

'May as well,' the feline retorted with a twitch of the tail.

Bruce felt a smile creep on and quickly turned away to save face against the animal. Damian was perched on the bed, legs stretched out in front of him, arms crossed in attempt to cease the shivering.

Bruce knelt in front of his son, untying the black leather shoes.  

He wondered, briefly, if his mother had ever prepared Damian for bed.

(He wondered, briefly, if he would have ever prepared Damian for bed, if he had had the chance.)

 

_Green eyes shone in the golden sunset._

_“You should sleep.”_

_“I’m fine.”_

_Slim fingers trailed up a bared arm._

_“I will not leave you when you sleep, Beloved.”_

_A halted movement._

_“…I would rather spend the time with you.”_

_“You’re tired.”_

_A searching glance._

_“How do you see that?”_

_“I always see you.”_

_A caress against a sunburned cheek._

_“So you know everything, do you?”_

_“Everything regarding you, Beloved.”_

_Rose lips brushed his._

_“Goodnight.”_

Bruce slipped the dress shoes off each foot, peeling off the socks and stuffing them into the shoes. After his ears perked from a tussling sound, he glimpsed up and saw his son struggling with the pajama top. The father held off a chuckle and stood, gently grasping the flannel and maneuvering the small limbs through the arm holes. 

“Can do it mahself,” Damian groused through a yawn. Yet he still allowed his father to guide him to bed. The child slipped between the sheets, form snuggling up to the warm and purring cat. 

“I know,” Bruce whispered, and was gratified when Damian’s blue eyes closed. He tucked the bed, leaving sufficient room for the cat. 

Then, hesitantly, he placed a hand on his child’s head. 

Damian’s chest rose and fell peacefully, deep in slumber. His lips, no longer grim and biting in his fight against the world (his father’s war, his mother’s war, _I’ll protect you, I will protect you–_ ), were relaxed and soft with his breath. 

The man let a smile tinge his lips. 

Still a child.

“Goodnight, Damian,” he murmured, stroking the small brow. 

The snow fell. The house was hushed. The city closed its eyes.

 

_“Goodnight.”_


End file.
